


Mind Games

by scrapbullet



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Isolation, M/M, Not Beta Read, Obscurial Credence Barebone, Possessive Behavior, Post-Movie(s), Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Rescue, Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 21:14:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9289814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: Days, weeks, months... time is inconsequential. It slips between his fingers like water, trickling away until only the stale taste signifies its passage, a metallic tang to the nourishing liquid that Graves tries his best to ration.This is an oubliette, and Graves is here to be forgotten.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unsettled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/gifts).



Days, weeks, months... time is inconsequential. It slips between his fingers like water, trickling away until only the stale taste signifies its passage, a metallic tang to the nourishing liquid that Graves tries his best to ration.

He fought in the war, after all. He knows how this goes.

This is an oubliette, and Graves is here to be forgotten.

Hunger is a dull ache hollowing out his insides. The smell of his own sweat and waste is dizzying - _dehumanising_ \- and even the cool, worn brick on his bare skin is too much for his senses to handle, nerves over-sensitive. The raw scrape on his spine is awful, the kind of pain that steals breath from his lungs.

Isolation; four blank walls and constant light serves as its own kind of torture, the latter searing into his retinas until he almost gives in to the desire to claw at them, despairing at the brightness that allows him no rest or sleep. The former? Ah, the former causes his mind to languish, mind-numbingly bored with only memories for company. Memories of failure.

Credence.

In truth, nothing more than a boy. A squib, Graves had mused at first, and then once the static taste of magic on his tongue grew more pronounced alongside Credence’s anguish, the answer to the sum made itself clear. The longer the boy remained in the care of his mother the more it festered; the kind of rot that spreads, thick and sweet and never leaves, colouring each thought and motion. That Credence - naive and starved for affection - is the Obscurial now seems all too obvious.

A little fact that Graves has managed to keep from Grindelwald, with surprising ease. Getting one up on the fanatic dark wizard brings joy to Graves’ shrivelled heart, and even now, brings a smile to his lips. 

That is, if Grindelwald doesn’t work it out for himself. 

Poor Credence. Poor, unassuming Credence the waif, touched by the belt and by hate and left scarred, inside and out. There’s no telling what Grindelwald would do to a boy like Credence - so malleable, delighting in every ounce of care that Graves had so willingly bestowed. Each embrace left him visibly yearning, all but begging for the clutch of Graves’ arms around him. To have him ruined by Grindelwald, ruined and _used, little more than a tool_ -

Air shudders from his lungs, chest tightening. No. No, that doesn’t bear thinking about.

“You can’t break me,” he murmurs, half to himself and to the world in general. “I’ve been trained for situations such as this; I won’t break. I won’t.”

It’s a lie. Grindelwald hasn’t paid Graves a visit in days - _weeks, or is it more? Does it even matter?_ \- has yet to even cast a single spell-

Wait, no. No. Graves frowns, touches his chapped lips with his fingertips, tasting iron. When did Grindelwald come? When was the last, when was the first? Has he ever come? Memory, or a figment of the imagination? That voice, that laugh, the sheer amusement in Grindelwald’s fathomless eyes-

A bark of hysteria becomes a wet sob. The thought that perhaps his mind is beginning to fray at the edges is terrifying, and so Graves draws back from his physical self to wait.

If he’s to break apart at the seams, he might as well do it as far away from his oubliette as possible.

* * *

Graves dreams. He dreams of a billowing shade enveloping him without impediment, ghosting over his eyelids like the coolest balm. He dreams of full lips on his brow, of peace unencumbered by the burden of his flesh. There is no torment, only tenderness. No grief, only contentment.

There are no night terrors, only somnolence.

(“ _Gone, but not forgotten,_ ” Credence croons, low and sweet, into the crook of Graves’ neck.)

* * *

Reality is a bitch. 

Reality is the scrape of a razor on his furred jaw, slow and careful so as to not draw blood. Practised hands tilt Graves’ head back with assured ease - the keen edge of the blade kissing the curve of his adam’s apple. It is the clip of scissors and the utilitarian scrub-down that follows, leaving his skin to smart, simmering with inexplicable sensation. It is cotton slipping over his legs and the steady _drip-drip-drip_ of fresh mineral water into his open mouth.

It hurts to breathe, Graves straining against a heavy weight as he coughs, throat dry. Coughing inevitably leads to dry-heaving and the acridity of bile. Credence wipes Graves’ mouth with a handkerchief, pre-occupied. His eyes are a pool of molten black, mercurial.

“ _Grindelwald,_ ” Graves implores, weakly clutching at Credence’s shirt sleeve. “ _Credence. Where- where is-_ ”

“Hush,” Credence consoles, thumbing away a smear of shaving cream on Graves’ chin. There’s a certain fondness in that liquid gaze, and possessive, as darkly intrigued as Grindelwald himself was in those final moments before Graves’ captivity. “It’s alright, Mr Graves.”

It isn’t. Graves moans, delirious. His heart thrums against his ribcage, thin and fast like a birds. Vapour spills from Credence’s pale skin in a thick torrent, coaxing and caressing. 

Credence, for all his displays of power, merely hums, indolent, drawing Graves close. The embrace is a mocking mirror of before; Graves enfolded and clutched tight, too weak to resist. “It’s alright,” Credence repeats, smile beatific. “I’m here to take care of you.”

Graves succumbs, resigned. 

He has merely exchanged one prison for another.


End file.
